


Immovable, Irreplaceable

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly feelings of grief, Fake Character Death, Implied M/F, M/M, Set in the future, Thor has a son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if the Tesseract hadn't been on Midgard? The Avengers would never have assembled and Thor would still be without his brother, thinking Loki dead for centuries. Now Thor has a wife, a child, and has taken his place as King of Asgard. But then, in a twist of events, suddenly Loki is back from the void and, subsequently, from the 'dead.' But for what reasons has he returned?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It was amazing the things left standing after everything else had crumbled. The things that could not be replaced, Thor learned, were the first things to go. Walls and pillars and scaffolding could be rebuilt and polished. Asgard stood as it ever did, a symbol of power and glory throughout the realms. Things had changed, of course; even for a people as unphased by the sea of time as the Asgardians were. The millennia plodded on by and Odin All-Father decided to put his weary, age-worn bones to rest. Frigga followed behind him, her once-gold hair threaded with grey. Such old souls as they needed rest, Thor’s mother explained to him. She made it sound so simple. It was not simple for Thor.

A man who loved so fully could never say ‘goodbye’ without tears in his eyes. He had mourned with the rest of the realm, of course, and raised his glass to the greatest king of them all. The best father he could have asked for. People all around him had sung their praises, drunk their wine, and gone home to their families after the candle wax pooled on the table and into the platters of half-eaten spiced pastries and cheeses. When the halls were left empty at the end of the mourning week, Thor felt oddly as though he had nothing left. No, mother, no father. No little brother. Each one, he’d looked in the eyes as they left him.

Odin had been lying in his bed. He had imparted to Thor, once again, all the things he should remember when he was king. Always perfecting him and guiding him until the very end. He had been holding his father’s hand when he disappeared into a film of atmosphere. It was almost as though he hadn’t been there at all.

Frigga had been speaking to him in the gardens, telling him how proud she was of him. She told him how much she loved him and then, her gown trailing in the moss and dried leaves, she stepped away. He could remember the way she looked back at him, just once. A smile was on her lips, bracketed with those elegant creases that marked her age. Thor could still remember the way her hand bowed at the wrist the last time he saw her, a parody of that regal wave she had perfected during her graceful reign at Odin’s side. Then she stepped behind the nearest cyprus tree and disappeared.

And Loki…

Though so much time had passed since he last saw his brother’s face, he would never forget the look in his eyes as he fell into a void. That image would always haunt Thor’s dreams at night. He had been so close, but hadn’t been able to reach out and save him. Over the centuries, the memory that played over and over became grainy in places and bled into itself. Had Loki let go of his own accord, or had he simply slipped away because he could no longer hold on? Perhaps both. If only he had been able to fortify those fingers and wrap them safely in his own, he would not be alone now. It was a selfish sort of thought, Thor knew. Nonetheless, it was one of the few true regrets of his past. Odin told him a king would always have regrets, but they had to be yoked to him and never forgotten, lest the same mistake be made. It was a heavy burden to bear, of course. Thor doubted he could forget Loki even if he tried. And he had tried.

There was Sif, of course. She was a good wife, one that went with him into battle or on hunts. Her lust for the spar and jolt of metal-on-metal rivaled his own and, in that, they shared their friendship as well as their marriage. Sif had proven to be a good queen, beloved by all and respected. The joy of sharing this royal life with her only doubled when she told him that they were to have a son. It felt, for once, as though he was going to have a family, a real family, once more. One he could hold in his vast, warm heart wherever he went, to power him through the good times and the bad.

They named him Olen.


	2. Fragments Left Humming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor stumbles across a piece of the past.

“What are you looking at?”

Thor turned from the window to peer over his shoulder. Sif’s form was silhouetted at the fireplace. She was bent at the waist, arms working to swaddle and fold cloth around their son. Thor often times didn’t hear her enter until she spoke up. Having a warrior as a wife meant her stealth went unmatched, especially when he found himself distracted. “They are celebrating tonight,” he answered, leaning on the casement. Fireworks popped in the distance, sprinkling the sky with diamonds and rubies of color. They streaked back down toward the ground and disappeared, fizzling and hissing as they went. It lit up the city all around. It was beautiful.

“What’s there to even celebrate?” Sif chuckled. “Nothing special happened today.”

“Maybe it is someone’s name day today. You never know.” Did it have to matter? It was lovely no matter what the reason. It meant people were happy and that, to Thor, was the most important thing. As king, it was what he liked to see in his people.

When he turned away from the window, Sif was walking closer, child in her arms. Olen was barely able to keep his eyes open, but he was trying. It made Thor smile as he accepted him into the cradle of his own body, imparting a kiss upon his wife’s cheek as they made the exchange. She kissed him back, a laugh barking from her chest. “Sleep well,” she teased.

He jested right back. “Off with you. Go take a bubble bath and lather yourself in your apricot jams while I suffer.”

“I was planning on it. Just be careful. Don’t roll over and crush him in your sleep, now.”

“That’s a horrible thing to think. I am always careful,” Thor professed.

Sif jabbed him in the ribs with her finger. “I was speaking to Olen.”

He laughed as she turned to leave, still standing by the window. When the door closed behind her, he looked down at his son. “Just you and me tonight. Gives your mother some rest, right?” It was nice, he thought, that they traded off every once in a while. Sif rather insisted, but Thor didn’t mind. Being a good father meant taking the time. Odin taught him that. Even when it meant waking up in the middle of the night several times.

The first time, Thor was resting with Olen atop his chest, one large hand settled upon him to keep him in place. Waking up to crying was expected by now, but he had the capacity to dry those tears just as easily as Sif did.

There was a second time that night. And a third time. It wasn’t unusual.

But the fourth time, it seemed as though nothing could console Thor’s son. He tried everything short of slinking back to Sif to beg for help. Waking her was something he was not keen on doing, and so he sat cross-legged on the bed, Mjolnir tossed to one side (sometimes Olen found joy in watching his father swing his mighty hammer in great arcs and circles until it became naught but a blur, but not this time) and his son lying in front of him, screaming up a storm. He sat there for a few minutes, head in hand, trying to think of some tactic to ease both their pain. In times like these, Thor fretted as a mother might: was his son sick? Was he trying to tell him something? What if something was seriously wrong? His big heart simply couldn't take it.

After a quarter of an hour, Thor decided that perhaps just taking a midnight walk would help. He cradled Olen to his chest and began to pace the great halls of Asgard. These were the halls he ruled in the daytime, but he looked nothing like a king right now. Dressed down into nothing but loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved tunic, he was just a father. Cries and wails continued to echo throughout the halls as he passed through them. It may have just been his imagination, but it seemed like the reverberation was making it louder.

“You are not happy,” Thor murmured. They were getting far from his chambers, so he slid down with his back against the wall to sit. Tired, slightly frustrated, but desperate to right whatever wrongs were lurking in his son’s world, he set him down in the space between his knees. As if by some cast of Odinsmagic, the crying stopped as soon as Olen was on his stomach. A heavy sigh left Thor’s chest as he closed his eyes and let his head thud back against the wall. Silence and peace, for once. His heart finally sank back down from where it had been choking him for the last half hour.

When he looked back down, Olen wasn’t there. His eyes widened, his body jerking in alarm. That rush of adrenaline that jolted his world was unmatched by anything he had ever experienced in battle. Never before had he actually experienced his vision blurring under the force of his absolute terror until he experienced the fear of losing his only child in his own hall, like a nightmare come true. What Thor was prepared to do in that moment, even he wasn’t fully comprehending. That was, until he looked down the hall and saw Olen crawling away with a vigor only attained by a baby on the lam. The panic subsided immediately, followed by a wash of relief. This emotional up-and-down of being a parent was unlike anything Thor could have expected.

Thor allowed himself a laugh, one that boomed through the empty hall. It calmed the rest of his frayed nerves and smoothed over his internal embarrassment at how quick he was to jump to such  terrifying conclusions. Slowly, he picked himself up and followed after his son. In a few short strides, he’d covered the ground that it had taken Olen so much effort to squirm his way across, but made no move to pick him up. It made Thor smile to watch him grow like this. Every time he crawled, every time he looked up at his father or mother.

“And where is the little warrior going?” he asked, walking behind Olen as he went down the hall. “Does duty call elsewhere?” Even when talking to a baby, Thor could not manage to keep his voice soft as most people did. He tried, but his enthusiasm usually overrode any attempts at speaking delicately. He was a gentle giant whenever he actually handled his son, of course. His big hands were not leaden as some would have expected.

They played a game. Whenever they came to a door, Olen would knee-and-palm his way up to it and wait there. Thor would open it for him, let him look inside, but before he even had a chance to close the door again, Olen was off to find another. Something pleased him about it. Perhaps it amused a baby’s brain to see a room appear where there had not been one before.

Their slow and steady travels took them almost to the other end of the living quarters. Arbitrary hallways and twists and turns didn’t deter brave children, apparently. Thor didn’t mind the late night walk, either. It would give him something to tell Sif tomorrow at breakfast. She would enjoy hearing how strong her son was becoming, how determined he was as he crawled through the halls he would one day own. Thor wondered, for a moment, if this was the pride Odin had felt for him when he was this age.

It was all smiles and games until Olen came to another door.

Thor’s smile faded. It was an old door. Runes and carvings decorated the golden double-doors. A smiling serpent curled around the large, circular emblem in the center that spanned both of the door handles. The gold had tarnished over time, appearing dull and dark in the creases of the carvings. Untouched, unused.

“No,” he murmured to his son. “No, no…”

But children didn’t understand the extent to which their games could hurt. Those who played games never liked to think about the consequences…

Olen waited, making little drooling noises.

Thor could not remember the last time he’d opened this door or the last time another had been allowed to step foot in here. It did not seem right. It seemed like an ugly thing to betray the unspoken, sacred seal that had been placed here by the tides of time and heartache.

“No,” he said again as he reached for the door handle. It sat cold in his palm and, for a moment, Thor couldn’t move. The war inside of him was still raging on, still urging him to make up his mind. He could pick Olen up and go back to bed. He could subconsciously avoid this hallway for another few millennia, until old age, until death. It may have been the hall that led quickest to the gardens, but no one came this way anymore and he suspected no one (save perhaps the servants who cleaned the floors) ever would again.

Olen wouldn’t tell, though. No one had to know. It was just part of the game he and his son were playing together.

The door swung inward. A cloud of dust spewed from the upset, ancient air currents. On instinct, Thor bent down to pick his child up and away from the filth. And from that moment on, this was no longer part of Olen’s game.

The room was cold. Thor’s nose filled with another cloud of dust as he moved into the space, eyes adjusting to the void-like, cloying darkness. And yet, for all the emptiness, there was no silence. Things were humming, whirring, vibrating as though something still lived here. He followed the sounds, boots crunching over the decaying remnants of an old bear-skin carpet. The sounds took him over to a large structure covered in a once-white sheet. All the furniture in the room had been covered by someone a long time ago. They stood out from the surrounding darkness like knobby, lopsided ghosts. Thor could make out what was probably a set of table and chairs over in one corner, a tall bookshelf standing opposite the bed. The sheeted form he approached was lower, about waist-height.

Curious, he lifted a corner of the sheet. It nearly frayed in his hands, falling to nothing but threads. This had been here a long, long time. Doing away with the decayed cloth, he found himself looking down at what used to be a desk. Nothing, it seemed, had been moved. The baubles and crystals were whirring at him even louder now that they had been exposed to the air. Eyebrows creased, Thor reached down to pick up a small, dull object that had been set into a pedestal as one would set an egg into a dish. He had no idea what it did, but once he wiped off a layer of grime with his thumb, he could see that it was the source of most of the noise. A small sphere was rotating madly inside of the larger one, shining little specks of light into the room around them. Midgardians used to have something like this, he recalled. They called them ‘disco balls.’

“Here,” he held it up to Olen’s face. “Look at this.” Betwixt his fingers, he held the bauble, turning it ever so slightly to watch the light play across his face. He was smiling, little hands reaching up to make a grab at it.

“No, this is… this is his. Not yours. You’re not old enough for this sort of thing yet.” He had no idea how fragile this was, and it wouldn’t do to be breaking Loki’s possessions. Even if, technically, they were no longer his. It seemed a shame that such wondrous things (there were many more humming and moving objects tucked just below the sheet) had to sit here in the darkness for eternity. Maybe someone could find use for them. Never would Thor dream of giving them away to strangers, no. He pulled open a drawer and peered inside. Papers that had turned to fibers, bottles of once-liquid ink that had now rotted back to powder. And a little bronze cube that was cut into segments that could be twisted and rotated to match up small, color-painted planes. He remembered this toy. It had been one of Loki’s favorites when he was young. This one, he knew, could not be broken by any child’s hand. It had been thrown off rooftops and been stepped on by horses back in the day. On accident, of course. Mostly. Though the paint was chipping off, it was in fairly good condition. Thor picked it up and presented it to Olen.

Olen accepted it and promptly stuck a corner of it in his mouth.

“ _No, no, no_ …” Thor took it back, wiped the drool off on his trousers (second nature to him by now), and pocketed the cube. It should be cleaned thoroughly before he gave it back. “I won’t tell your mother you did that if you don’t tell her I let you.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Thor and Olen managed to join Sif for breakfast. Thor hadn’t changed from that night’s sleepclothes, though he did manage to get Olen dressed. Priorities. Slightly disheveled as he was, his appetite remained unaffected. He reached over his breakfast plate and pulled the leg off a large, roasted bird.

“What’s that?” Sif nodded to the cube that Olen was thwacking against the table.

It took a moment for Thor to understand what she meant, already so comfortable with the sight of his son clinging to the object. “Oh,” he tried to brush it off as nothing. “It’s a toy I found for him.”

“Mnn,” she wasn’t convinced. “It has sharp edges. Perhaps not until later.”

“It’s alright, Loki never hurt himself on it when he was little,” Thor said without thinking.

Sif paused mid-chew. It had been a long time since she’d heard that name. “That…belonged to your brother?” There was something dangerous in her eyes. The same look, Thor learned, that a mother bear gave the hunter when they came too close to her cubs.

Realizing his mistake, it took all of Thor’s willpower to look her in the eyes as he affirmed, “Yes, it was one of his things.”

Sif’s chair squealed against the floor as she stood up with haste. She wasted no time snatching the cube from Olen’s pink, delicate grasp. “ _What were you thinking?_ ” she said, dark eyebrows arched together. “This could be…poisoned, enchanted, or worse! And you think it’s suitable to give to our—”

Thor held up his hands in defense. “It’s just a toy, my lady. Please, it’s not dangerous. It was my brother’s when he was young, before he harbored malice toward anyone. Certainly it is nothing worth getting upset over.”

Still clutching the toy in her fist as though to strangle it, Sif shook her head. “And just where did you even get this?”

Ah, now his eyes grew dark. He could sense a subject about to be breached that would leave neither of them satisfied. In this way, Loki still managed to cause strife in Asgard even when he was dead. The pain of disagreement between husband, brother, and king who defended him so vigorously and the wife and queen who condemned him so rightfully. It had been a point of contention for a long time, though had gone unspoken for just as long. “Last night, I visited his room.”

“You left Olen alone?”

“He was with me.”

She shook her head. Slowly, deliberately, as if trying to press this notion into her husband with every fiber of her being, she shook her head. It was the way she had of regarding Thor when she thought him an idiot. “Why would you do that? There are things in there that we do not know of. Harmful things, Thor.”

“I won’t take him with me again,” Thor said. “I apologize, I didn’t do it to upset you. Just…let him have the toy back. He likes it.”

Sif just stood there. She was menacing in her own right. It was not often Thor got to see this side of her turned against him and, oh, he did not envy her enemies in battle.

“Give it back,” he pressed again, tone lowering. The voice he used as king. “Please.”

Slowly, with much displeasure, she offered it back up to Olen’s greedy fingers. After a moment of watching him wave it around in the air, she said, “It would please you to have your son playing with your vile brother’s things?”

“It would please me, yes.”

They said no more on the subject.


	3. The Arrival of the Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new artifact ends up in Thor's possession. A dangerous object, indeed.

Several weeks passed. Sif made no mention of some of the other little trinkets that wound up in Olen’s possession. Little baubles attached to strings that could be reeled out and in effortlessly, gyroscopes and tops that would spin without falling down. Olen especially liked those. He could watch the set of blue and gold cones rivet across the floor for hours on end. Thor would spin it up, let it go, and lie down to take a nap or two without being disturbed. As long as he heard the whirring of those toys against the marble floor, he knew his child was safe. It was a blessing, like having an extra set of hands.

It had been a long time since Thor had allowed himself to think of Loki directly. But it was one soggy afternoon that, behind his eyelids, Thor imagined Loki there, sitting in one of the great chairs with a book spread open on his lap and Olen on the floor at his feet. He wouldn’t say a word while Thor was trying to rest, but he would look up every few moments to make sure that all was well. Thor imagined himself spread out on the comforter, snoozing away in the midday heat like he hadn’t a care in the world and it would have been quiet because Loki would have known what to do every time the baby was upset. He had always been so good at bending people to his will. Ambassadors and scholars, great warriors and monsters. A baby would have been no match for Loki. If he had been alive, he would have helped raise the little prince with more expertise than either him or Sif with the way the two of them blundered on. But he wasn’t, so his toys would have to do.

The heat of high season always seemed to get to Thor the most when he was sitting in the throne room facing a line of citizens waiting to either bring him qualms or present to him gifts. The heat sank underneath his collar and into the back of his neck, making him irritable. Sometimes, during this time of the year, Thor was tempted to shave his head and his beard so he no longer had to deal with the infernal scratch and itch that the stifling, humid weather brought about. Or, better yet, he could always retire to his chambers and forget his duties for the day.

But no, no. Here Thor was, a good king. Just like his father. Every other day, he held his court so that he could be seen and heard by his people. His attempt to look less surly just made him look petulant. Brow slightly creased and one elbow leaning upon the sun-splintered arm of his throne, he beckoned the next couple in line. “Come,” he said, “let me hear your voices. Be they grievances or otherwise.”

The couple were dressed simply, but with dignity. They carried between them a wooden box with the same simple, clean craft as their clothing. Thor deduced they must have been farmers or merchants from the outskirts of Asgard. Perhaps they had even traveled to come and see him.

“My King,” the man said, coming to one knee. The box was put on the floor before him and his wife. “The last harvest season, we came to you out of fear for our flock. The forest had begun to close in on our farm and the wolves were threatening our land. You allowed the construction of a wall to rein in the wilderness from our livelihood, and we thank you deeply. It has done wonders to protect us and our flock. Please, take this as a token of our gratitude.” The man opened the box, revealing thick bolts of finely-spun wool. It was yet un-dyed, but clearly of the most pristine quality.

Now, it was things like this that did warm Thor’s heart. It was tedious, at times, to rule a realm and, to be honest, he did not even remember making such a decision for this couple, as it had been such a long time passed. But to see that he had done some good, even a small amount of good, warmed him from the inside out. It was a good kind of warmth, not the kind that beat heavy upon his brow from the outside. “This gift is for me?” he asked, blue eyes creasing at the corners in a genuine smile.

“It is, my King. It is from our finest sheep. We are confident it can be woven into something remarkable for you or your fine family.”

A moment  passed where Thor simply looked over the offering in approval, nodding his head. He could imagine it now. A new court dress for Sif, another warm blanket for Olen. The wool could be dyed with brilliant colors and woven with rich, gold thread.

His thoughts were interrupted as the doors to the throne room flew open. They banged against adjacent walls, unfettered. Guards and citizens alike raised their heads and turned toward the sound. For a second, no one could figure out exactly what was happening. The confusion only mounted when there, framed by the golden threshold, was some sort of creature that Thor’s eyes had never looked upon before. It was heavy, its limbs burdened. Lumbering past the guards a small task for it, though the guards did everything in their power to hold it back, fearing some sort of attack. Shields and weapons were drawn to the hip, the unarmed crowd that had been standing in the center of the room parting in a frenzy. Hardly anyone had a chance to figure out what was going on, least of all Thor. He had Mjolnir in his hand and was bracing himself against the steps to his throne. So ready, he was, to protect his people from this creature that he was taken off-guard when it collapsed there with a dense, finite sound. It had made it no further than the winding, engraved design on the palace floor, its limbs still trembling as it tried to force itself to keep moving, to continue on. Cloak torn and spread all about its reptilian, gummy body, it finally gave in.

“Hold,” Thor said. He held out a hand to keep his guards from advancing upon the fallen beast. His narrowed eyes studied the crumpled form, searching for wounds or signs of where it had come from. Instead, he only found himself faced with more questions. What in the name of Odin had just burst into his court?

It moved with great pains. “Asgard,”  it hissed in a thick, gloppy accent that was like nothing Thor had ever heard before. “Asgard,” it said again, and it took Thor a moment to realize that it was addressing him directly. Glistening, beady eyes met his own. “Take this. Hide it. They will do nothing but come for you and bring your demise…they massacred us all…” A shaking claw reached inside of the travel-worn cloak.

All around, swords and spears were being raised, ready to strike should the creature produce a weapon. The whole room seemed to be holding their breath. All but Thor. Thor, who breathed out, coming just one step closer. There was no fear in him, only untethered curiosity.  “What will? Who are you?”

The creature presented to Thor a cube. It glowed blue and throbbed in waves that washed over the entirety of the vast chamber. Like some treasure from the deep, some artifact of old. Thor got the distinct feeling that, when he looked at the cube, it was looking back at him. He came even closer.

“The Tesseract,” the creature heaved in what was surely its final breath. “Hide it. It cannot be destroyed. They are…they…”

The entire room was silent. Every single person was lingering in anticipation for the words that followed. But nothing else came. The claw grasping the Tesseract shook with final moments of strain and then fell to the ground. The stillness of it all, the finality of it told Thor that the creature—whatever it was—had died before them all. It had come a long way from realms unknown to find them, to tell them something about this accursed Tesseract…but it seemed that there was so much that had gone unsaid. Had the beast lived only a few more minutes, perhaps Thor would not be left staring down at the form before him with so much confusion. His troubled expression remained on his face even as he stepped over the box of fine wool still on the floor and approached the Tesseract. It lay there so innocently, innocuous in its apparent ability to cause so much strife. So much destruction from one small artifact?

Thor reached down and picked it up, feeling the power of it jolt through his own arm. Tesseract, Tesseract…where had he heard of such a thing before? This was worth consulting Odin’s records. There were many fine treasures that had passed through his father’s hands that he had little knowledge of.  Such an object surely would have been known by Odin.

Ah, but there were his people and guards to tend to.  The court would have to be cut short today. To his people, he nodded curtly. “Please, see yourself to your homes and families. I apologize for those I did not have the chance to speak to today, but this is of utmost importance.”

As alarming as the experience was, he had little trouble convincing the civilians to begin filing out of the room. Women clutched their cloaks to their body, men had their hands to their hips. They left quickly, their murmurs of speculation echoing in around the hall in a collective, dull roar.

Now he spoke to his guards. “We must find out as much as possible from what we can. Search the body for signs of where he may have come from and what could have happened to him. This is troubling…” Thor looked down at the Tesseract, frowning. Hide it, he could. But if what this creature said was true, someone was about to come looking for it. Well, Thor was not afraid. Asgard was powerful and well-prepared for war, should it come looking for them and their little blue cube. For now, though, Thor wished to see Sif and have her council on the matter. She would know better than anyone else what the best actions would be to assure that they were ready for anything when—and if—it came.

 

* * *

 

It took his best scholars to finally root through Odin’s old records and find notes on the strange object that now rested warm in Thor’s palm. It was listed under the title ‘Cosmic Cube,’ but the description matched exactly. Even by Asgardian standards, the scholars (bent and knobby) told him that it was powerful. Powerful enough, indeed, to kill for.

Thor was never one to fiddle about with such objects out of curiosity. It took him almost no time at all to decide to lock it away in Odin’s vault beneath the palace, safe and secure. This place was known to be breached but once by Frost Giants of Jotunheim aided, it was later determined with some piecing together, by Loki. But that was one time, the perpetrator was no longer alive, and they had completely rearranged the security system to the vault since Odin’s death besides. The Tesseract would be safe from theft, but Asgard would not be safe from attack. If the creature’s warning had been correct, Thor could expect some very angry, very demanding beasts on his doorstep before too long.

That prospect made his blood run hot with the battlelust he had pushed aside for too long now. As King of a peaceful realm, Thor had managed to bridle his war-loving nature. Him and Sif both, apparently, because it took several odd looks from the servants before he realized that he and his wife had peculiarly delightful gleams in their eyes at supper that night as they polished their vambraces together.

Maybe…maybe they were looking forward to battle too much. Chomping at the bit, they were, before any war had officially been declared. Perhaps, Thor thought to himself, it never would. The Tesseract lay safe and unawares in the vault below them. No army had come yet.

“If something does happen,” Sif said that night, staring into the golden flickering fire, “we must take precautions. Olen should not be put in danger.”

Thor lay on his back on the bed. He was stretched out and staring up at the ceiling in reflection. He thought for a moment, then tilted his chin down to glance at his wife. Most of her was hidden from view by the large armchair she sat in, but he could see her face. Something bothered her. “He won’t.”

“You _think_ he won’t. But you don’t _know_. He won’t be safe here if something happens. He will be a prime target for our enemies. It is not uncommon for children to be hurt or killed in situations like—”

“ _He won’t._ ”

The force of his assertion shook the room, and yet Sif sat there as plainly and soundly as ever. Thor never shook her resolve. Never could, never would. And so it was him who backed down first. It took a moment, but he finally conceded. “If it comes to war, Olen will be sent to Midgard. I am sure he can be hidden there amongst the mortals in safety if anything happens.”

Sif nodded in agreement, taking her time to weigh the situation for herself. “Many of the mortals on Midgard have good hearts. He will be safe there.”

Petulant, Thor pressed, “But it won’t come to that.”

“No. It won’t come to that. Because you are a good king and you will keep us safe, no matter what comes our way.”


	4. Fragments Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor sees something fall from the sky.

The next day, Thor’s usual schedule was rearranged in favor of more comprehensive discussion with his generals over battle strategy. The basis of the matter amongst his most trusted warriors was still ‘if’ this swarm of greedy vagabonds would come, not ‘when.’ But Thor knew better. To be so dismissive of a potential threat would be folly.

The scholar and advisers seemed skeptical about whether or not they should heed the warning of a lost, raving alien creature. It cost money, they complained, and resources. There was time taken away from other projects to begin reforming proper defense and army. The scholars with their fingers in _those_ pies seemed to be the ones to yowl the loudest, pounding frail white hands against the great golden table. But they hadn’t seen what he’d seen, Thor reasoned. It was his duty to prepare for what was to come and, if it did, they would all be safer for his precautions, even if it meant putting aside an excavation on Niflheim or an exhibit featuring hundreds of the greatest artists of the millennia. Those could be picked up again later.

That night, Thor had a grand supper alongside his generals to celebrate strategies well-planned. When they asked him to stay a little longer and enjoy finishing off a fresh barrel of ale well into the evening, however, he declined with his famous booming laugh and generous smile. There were other places he needed to visit before the day’s end, he explained.

Not far from the main hub of Asgard, halfway up the mountain of the north, there was a shrine. It was guarded by kindly sages who smiled at Thor from beneath their hoods as he made his way up the final flight of steps.

He kicked the snow off his boots outside, touched the warmth of the wooden pillars as he entered the space. The pillar on his right depicted a raven in-flight, the pillar on his left perched an inquisitive, stationary raven.

The lights burning in the shallow basins never went out. Sometimes, when it was late at night and the skies were clear, he could look out of the window in his chamber and see the light emanating from the shrine. It was but a pinprick, but it was constant reminder. A constant comfort.

The leather of Thor’s tunic creaked as he brought himself to his knees before the finely-crafted statue. It stood tall, proud, faced the south where it watched over all in the valley of Asgard below with its one, gleaming eye. Upon the stone hem of its robe, Thor set his hands. Reverent. He summoned the inner serenity that gave him the space within to listen and said, “They say there will be a war soon. With whom, we know not. For how long, it is not clear. And yet, I would have your council, Odin. Father.”

He lifted his chin, gazing upon the face he’d known as a child. The lines etched into the stone brow and eyes recounted his circumspection.

“I would have you give me strength and guidance in these trying times to come. So many years of peace have been a luxury to enjoy, I know. But Asgard will not let that soften her spirit and skill on the battlefield.” A soft sigh escaped him. “Especially because I want so badly to make you proud. I know you had faith in me, or you never would have left the realm in my hands, but I wish to prove that I can defend his realm as well as you always have. You were a good king and you always kept us safe, no matter what came our way. Help me.”  

Odin was out there somewhere, Thor knew. His energy and wisdom vibrated within millions of particles that hovered betwixt the stars and he could feel the old man listening to him with all of his ancient and terrible power. No immediate answers would be given, however; none ever were, not even when Odin had walked the halls of the palace. Thor knew he would have to have patience, so he said a few affectionate words of parting and stood.

He made his way back to Sif and Olen a few hours after nightfall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He ran his fingers along the cool shaft of the scepter. It vibrated, it hummed to his touch, long-since familiar. His companion. It _understood_ him.

_Leave it_ , He’d told him. _Leave it behind this time._

And what was a servant to do but obey?

Well, this servant bided his time. He would obey for now, because obedience bred complacency in the house of the captor. And sometimes, _sometimes_ it was hard to be anything but obedient. As millennia crept by and began to blur and wring together, it was often times difficult to remember the difference between slave and servant, prince and king.

_It is time to go now_ , He said. _And this time, it had better work. Or we have to do it all over again_.

And he didn’t want to do this all over again. He really didn’t want to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I still say we should be thinking about getting him his own horse. He’s grown enough to ride!”

“Thor,” Sif shook her head with a smile as she bought into her husband’s playful, proud jest. “Olen cannot even walk. He’s not getting a horse.”

“A pony, then.”

“Thor!”

They both laughed and Thor handed his son up to Sif. She tucked the toddler into a small basket in the saddle in front of her, nested safely between the apex of her legs.

Summer sun was beginning to descend. It was a perfect time for Thor to gather Sif and Olen together for a late picnic. Battle planning and defense meetings had been his main focus the last few days, and it had taken a brief toll on spending time with his family. This evening, however, would be spent in what he considered to be the best company in the world.

Sif took down the deer that would be their supper while Thor took Olen to the berry patch alongside the river. Thor showed him how to pick the berries and place them in the basket for them to eat later. Or tried, anyway. After only fifteen minutes, the child’s face was already smeared with red and dark blue dye and his little fingers had crushed so many berries that he may as well have stuck his hand in a jar of jam. So most of the berries they managed to bring back to the campsite were, admittedly, from Thor’s efforts. But that was okay. It was all perfect in his eyes.

‘Berry-beast’ Sif had nicknamed their son once they got back to the campsite. So while she attempted to wash Olen in the nearby steam before supper, Thor reclined against the bedrolls with his hands tucked beneath his neck and his boots kicked off. Once the heat of the day subsided, the campfire was a pleasant warmth against his bare toes.

The horizon blushed purple and pink. Thor’s eyes attempted to connect the stars together. He traced the stars and constellations he’d known as a child. The wagon, the toe, the lode-star. Some things never changed.

Something flared blue in the corner of Thor’s vision. He sat up slightly, turning his head to see for himself what was causing such a bright, unbridled flash in the twilight’s haze. The illumination cascaded over his upturned face.

It happened so quickly. Like a comet, an azure light streaked across the sky, arching over Asgard. A whiplash of cosmic energy unlike anything Thor had ever seen. His eyes burned with the necessity to look away, but he could not. Never before had he seen anything like it. No comet, no shooting star ever looked like this. As his stubborn desire to allow his gaze to linger won out, everything went white.

And then the forest floor rumbled beneath him.

And then he heard the vast, heavy clap of something solid hitting rock and soil. Like the sound a bolt of lightning made as it collided with its twin.

Whatever it was--whatever had streaked across the sky--had landed here in this very forest. Thor sat up, calling Mjolnir to him from where she was perched upon his bedroll (an ongoing joke between him and Sif where he got to claim the comfiest of beds in the name of the King).

Thor had pulled his boots back on by the time Sif returned, Olen wrapped in her arms. “Where are you going?”

“Something fell from the sky. I’m going to investigate.”

Sif looked over her shoulder, searching the surrounding forest for any sign of the apparent danger that resonated in Thor’s tone. She found nothing there. Only the cricket song and the silhouette of a watchful owl. “It was probably a meteorite. Rocks fall from space all the time, you know this.”

“Sif, have you ever known me to startle at a falling rock from space?” His eyes pressed her, holding her to speak truthfully of all their time they’d spent together. Thor did not bend for mere trifling worries. He did not suffer for the trivial. He did not honor the insipid.

And so she nodded to him. “Go.”

Underbrush crunched beneath his feet as Thor made his way into the forest. He hadn’t seen exactly where the thing had landed, but he could haphazard a guess judging by the trajectory of what he’d seen going across the sky. If he even got too lost, he could always use Mjolnir to take him aloft and look for a crater. But likely, as the sky was dark now, he wouldn’t be able to see much up high anyway. It was best to find his way from the ground so he couldn’t miss it.

He walked for almost ten minutes before he caught sight of broken tree tops. They all bent in the same direction, pointing right toward the crash site. Soon broken tree tops became broken branches and trunks as the thing that drove through the canopy—whatever it had been—descended.

Thor knew he found what he was looking for when the sharp, distinct smell of burnt ozone hit him. It smelled like electricity on leather and flesh. It was a smell Thor was all-too-familiar with to miss. He only had to follow the scent, letting it cloud him as he stepped over yet another fallen oak tree and stepped into the clearing.

The forest floor steamed. Dry leaves were still smoldering around the edges. And there, in a small crater of debris, was a body laid spread-eagle.

“Hello?” Thor approached cautiously, brow furrowed. A body. A _person_. It had been a person he’d seen smeared across the night sky, burning blue like a pyre. And now he wasn’t moving. Thor wondered if he was still alive after all that. “You must be hurt. Let me help you. Stay with me if you can hear my voice.” A large, rotund tree blocked his path. He wrapped his arms around it and began to shove it out of the way, all the while continuing his reassuring, one-sided conversation. “You have landed in Asgard. I imagine that sounds a long way from where you call home, as you came from space. I shall not hurt you, though. Just hold on…”

With a groan, Thor managed to push the fallen tree aside finally. Path cleared, he rushed toward the fallen body, expecting to find something terrible—a crushed, mangled shell of a person.

Thor had no idea just how much worse it really was.

The first thing Thor remembered seeing was dark hair. Dark black, maybe brown. It was hard to tell under the veil of night. It fanned around the man’s head, over the still-smoking leaves and bruised underbrush. It was a man, Thor knew. Built like a tall, thin—not thin; _emaciated_ —man.  Thor’s eyes skimmed over leather and time-faded metal. Probably gold, once upon a time, but it was difficult to tell beneath the char and the corrosion. Leather and gold struck an odd memory in Thor. Reminded him of –

—someone. With thin wrists and spider-fingers and dark hair that always fell against his cheeks as he laid back against a saddle, couch, grass, _bed_.

Someone with a regal nose that turned up a little at the tip, but no one noticed that, no one but Thor ever noticed the way it turned up just slightly.

And if at first Thor thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, then he knew it for sure now. Because there, sprawled in a pile of debris and smoulder was his little baby brother. It was an impossible occurrence because Loki was dead. He’d been dead for a long, long time.

Yet there he was. As Thor fell to his knees beside the body, his hands held pronated in reverence for this cruel illusion. His palms cupped the steam rising from the man’s chest. He stared and stared, but the image of Loki’s face never faded. Still Thor did not believe what he saw, so he reached down and, with quivering fingers, rested his hands upon that face.

The body was overheated, probably from the fall through the atmosphere. Sweat and steam was slowly beginning to cool upon the cheek beneath Thor’s palm. He tried to brush it and the fine layer of soot away so that he could reveal an inch or two of that pale skin that lay beneath. It was just as waxen as he remembered it to be. This was no illusion. This was his _brother_.

“Loki,” he breathed, as if too afraid speak too loudly, lest he ruin the illusion. “Loki.” Thor’s hands were gentle as they had ever been as he cradled Loki’s head, supporting him behind his neck in that protective way he’d always tried to handle his little baby brother, ever since he had been a but an infant. He needed to hold him like that now. Whether this was his belatedly gifted corpse or if there was still some hope…

Thor felt his chest tighten as he heard the sound of a ragged, broken inhale against his left ear. It probably wasn’t good for Loki’s frayed body, but he couldn’t help but embrace him tightly to his chest.

He was here. He was _home_.


End file.
